


Failed Brews and Warm Talks

by daisybrien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Angst, Angst and Humor, Character Study, F/F, Friendship/Love, Gen, Harry Potter - Freeform, Healing, Hogwarts, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Late at Night, Magic, Magic-Users, No Plot/Plotless, Potterstuck, Recovery, Reflection, Romantic Friendship, Self-Acceptance, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybrien/pseuds/daisybrien
Summary: Thank Merlin you can laugh, because your life wouldn't be the same without it.





	

Her footfalls are silent as she pads her way down the stairs from the girl’s dormitory, her ghosting through the halls of the common room so taciturn that when you finally hear her misstep against the creaking floorboards, it is too late to wipe the snot and running mascara from your face.

You don’t bother hiding the old cauldron tucked inside the cradle of your crossed legs; stolen from the wares of an old janitorial closet you and Dirk had snooped out to hide his brother’s Muggle contraband, it is not only too cumbersome to tuck away now, but emitting a smell close to that of burning gum that would trace anyone with a half-keen nose to its whereabouts. Instead, you stare down into the murky crimson of the potion, gut clenched in the pain of buried sobs and self-loathing as the firewhiskey you had tried to brew bubbles within. Shoulders hunched over in shame, you refuse to turn around. You already feel her wide eyes boring into your back, judgment – or pity, you’ve had so much of the two directed at you that you’re starting to find them indiscernible from each other – setting your nerves further on edge.

You brace yourself for her response. She might call your name innocently, rolling the first letter in the elegant way of hers, faux ignorance dripping from her tone as she asks what you’re doing, as if admitting you’re drunk off your ass again grants you some scrap of dignity you don’t deserve. Or she’ll try to sneak away; you’ve only caught her do so once, when she thought she hadn’t been noticed over the rim of the bottle pressed slack against your lips. You hope she will scold you this time, ready for her to finally grow frustrated of your shenanigans, of waking up from troubled dreams to see your troubled form sprawled over in the common room at ass-o-clock in the middle of the night plastered out of your mind.

You hear her sigh, expecting her weary voice to beckon you up off the floor. You get the patter of her feet in response, can feel the lace of her nightdress brush against your knee as she draws to your side before plopping down beside you on the floor.

You catch a glimpse of her face – it is scarred and thin, her green wide eyes rimmed with dark circles that do nothing to hide her sallowness, her snaggletooth chewing at her lip – before she dips her head. You jump as it falls onto your shoulder, the warmth of someone else touching you not something you’re used to. 

“I do hope you’re not thinking of drinking that,” Calliope deadpans. You can’t help but snort a giggle, one that gurgles against all the snot building in your nose and coating your lower lip.

“It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?” you quip. Your voice is thick, and you stain your sleeve with gross streaks when you wipe the mess of your face. “Roxy Lalonde, Potions Master of the century. Slughorn’s got nothing on my ass.”

“Looks more like poison to me,” Calliope murmurs, both of you scrutinizing the burbling concoction. Each bubble rises to the surface slow and thick, popping with the sludgy consistency of something a slug would secrete. It also smells just as muddy brown as it looks, so much so that if you hadn’t made it from scratch yourself, you’d be thoroughly convinced that some hooligan had held the cauldron under the tail of a horse with horrid diarrhea, wondering what brave soul had the endurance to do so.

You kind of wish you did that now; give Binns a nice, anonymous gift on his desk in return for the fat heaping F he has left on your report two days ago. 

You wonder how fucked the last week must have been in order to favor a pile of horseshit over booze.

“It would be poison whether it worked or not,” you say.

“That is deep,” she deadpans. A joke. You feel the smile that was just fading on your lips begin to return, if only for a short while. 

“I don’t even know why I’m trying to do this,” you groan, eyes burning with the pressure that builds behind them. “I just. I thought I was over it.”

“Roxy,” her voice is gentle, breath feather soft against your shoulder. “It takes time.”

“I know, but-“ you prod at the slurry in your cauldron with the tip of your wand, watching it wiggle like moldy gelatin – “one bad week is all it takes to bring me to this.”

“Oh, Roxy,” Calliope says. “Roxy, I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t,” you interrupt. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have cursed him-“

“The pleasure’s mine.”

“I just don’t know why he has to be so insufferable!” Calliope yelps. She grows stiff against you, her bony hands balled into shivering fists, buried deep under her armpits as she crosses her arms. She winds herself tight like a knot, frowning into her tangle of limbs, only easing out of it when Roxy places a firm hand on the small of her back. 

“Callie, your brother is the equivalent of Merlin’s scrotum,” you say, pausing when she has to bite back a laugh. “Like fuck, I know we worship the dude and he was important and stuff but come on, no ballsack is worth agonizing over.”

“I feel like you would be exactly the kind of person to agonize over Merlin’s testes,” Callie retorts. 

“That’s not what I mean,” you groan; why does everyone have to pit your love for the stereotypical mystical wizard against you? 

“And considering you’re down here at two in the morning, it seems like you are.”

“Well, I’m not,” you say. “I care about the people around me, I care about my friends, I care about you. It’s not him that bothers me, it’s you guys that do, knowing he’s being a dastardly damn prick all over your guys’ shit. I don’t care what he says to me.”

“But I care about you too. Immensely so!” Calliope sits up to face you, expression drawn. Her cheekbones catch the light of the moon through the gaps in the velvet curtains, the sharp lines of her face brought into clarity as it reflects against her smooth, hard skin. Her eyes shine as they gaze at you in abandon, bright against the haggardness of the rest of her, and despite the way your heart flutters at the thought of the former, you can’t help but fear you’ve caused the latter. “You shouldn’t have to endure such abuse. I especially don’t want you to, not for my sake. Or that of anyone else.”

Your cheek aches with the wry grin that claims your lips; you almost feel loved, making you warm like wine in your veins on a cold night; but your mind is still clear to flounder in your happiness, the ache in your chest good, with no burning, no scorching down your throat to your belly like the temporary release of whiskey. 

“You’re too good,” you murmur, your chest still swollen and fluttering at her words. You wrap an arm around her. “But you don’t have to worry. I’ve heard worse. I’m used to whatever some asshole tries to throw my way.”

Of course you have gotten used to it over the years; you’ve had no other choice than to flash dazzling smiles at those that glare in your classes and turn the murmurings that follow you through the corridors into pleasant static in your mind, a white noise lulling you into usual routine. Whispers have become your fashion statement, trailing behind you more fluidly than your mother’s scarves as you grew into both. You hand people’s pity back with a snort, roll your eyes at the way they mourn such a young witch with incredible potential being born to a mother dabbling in the obscure. You had screamed songs of rambunctious verity in your earlier years, only to learn that silence best taught the truth of your mother’s caring despite her distance; her sense of justice despite an affinity for dark magic. And the few without it - with only arrogance in their shriveled hearts, those purebloods that stalked the halls with impending authority – those that dared to imply the loss of your mother to the traditional hogshit of their hatred have met the business end of your wand right between the eyes. You’ve heard thousands of rumours, thousands more about your mother, each more devilishly evil and preposterous than the next that their attempt to dig under your skin is laughable. 

And you do laugh; to yourself, with the friends that were ready to throw hexes back over your shoulder with ease, at the jokes and the pranks that you gifted both teachers and students alike, with the wonderful girl pressed against your side. You laugh in drunken stupors. You’ll laugh more when you dump the failed booze in your cauldron out the window. 

You laugh because you want to, need to, because it’s become the one thing you can do when doubt bubbles in your gut, a chip in the skin you’ve thickened from practice over years of abuse. You laugh and you smile and you compliment. You look at Calliope’s face, marred skin tough and warped by curses inflicted with expert hand, and you can’t help but smile, feel a bubble of joy in your throat ready to burst because her beauty and creativity are deserving of it; because when you think of the awful magic that caused it, of the years of work it took to pull yourself together now, you doubt that you’re deserving of it.

You laugh because it works, because it is the only thing that can work when people want to keep you from doing so. You laugh, because why shouldn’t you? 

So thank Merlin you can. You’re almost glad you need it, because you wouldn’t want to be without it either way. 

The soft bong of a clock by the doorway makes the two of you jump from your silent musings; followed by two more strikes, you’re suddenly very aware of your eyes burning with exhaustion, slipping closed as you lean into the lax body beside you. 

“We should get some rest,” Calliope pulls the thought from your head. You do nothing more but yawn, taking her offered hand as she rises, portrait striking against the dark constellation of the night sky through the airy windows of your dorm.

You let go of her only to open them, tipping your cauldron over the ledge and watch the contents as it falls; falling, falling, falling from the highest tower in this castle you’ve made a home out of, before it splatters against the lush grass below with a sickening, satisfying splash. You only turn away from how badly you’ve decimated that damn mess when Calliope leads you away, your body so willing to follow her.

You can’t wait to inspect the mess of it more closely in the morning.


End file.
